


Toujours Pur

by SorrowsFlower



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adlock, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual BDSM, F/F, F/M, Sherlock AU, Teacher-Student Relationship, Twisted relationships, Violence, Warstan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8764201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SorrowsFlower/pseuds/SorrowsFlower
Summary: "Killing is never as easy as the innocent believe, Irene..."
The girl - no, the Woman - that now stood before Albus Dumbledore looked him straight in the eye. Her next words were cold and merciless, but he could see in her ancient eyes the humanity that had not been present in either of her parents. 
"With all due respect, Headmaster, I have never been innocent. My bloodline made sure of it."
______
Harry Potter / Adlock AU in which Irene Adler is the daughter of The Dark Lord and the mad child that was Bellatrix Lestrange. Set during canon HP (Year 1 to 7).





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, don’t kill me for this. I haven’t read The Cursed Child – though I had come up with an AU where Bellatrix is Irene’s mother before its release – and I hate that they gave Voldemort a kid, with Bellatrix, of all people, because I feel like this ruins the concept of Voldemort, the ultimate villain who completely isolates himself from the human experience, and it utterly destroys the relationship between them (Voldemort, I feel, would never condescend to a physical relationship with a submissive – in this case, Bellatrix).
> 
> That being said, the exception to my rule is if Irene is the child. Much to my irritation, it makes perfect sense, and fits right into my original AU idea of Bellatrix as Irene’s mother.

_Hush little baby, don’t say a word… There, in the darkness, evil stirred_

 

The woman lay in the middle of the bed that had been her sanctuary in girlhood, her thick dark hair plastered to her forehead. The sheets were smeared generously with blood and sweat covered her whole body, but she appeared not to care as the infant she had just brought into the world was placed in her arms.

A smile graced her beautiful, sweat-sheened face, and the midwife recoiled instinctively. It was not the tender smile of a mother whose physical labor had finally come to fruition and was meeting her child for the first time. It did not enhance her beauty, rather it was something... _deranged_ , something innately wicked that contorted her features into a psychotic farce of new motherhood.

The midwife placed the large basin beside the new mother and hurried out of the room, crossing herself. The baby's thin, desperate cry resonated behind her and she felt a shiver run down her spine. _That poor, cursed little creature..._ The other occupants of the room let her leave, for which she was utterly thankful, and the midwife disappeared into the night, vowing never to speak of this birth again.

The room was dim and the candles flickered as the woman swaddled the infant with infinite care, but it was not with a mother’s affection that she performed this task, rather with the worshipful attention one would bestow upon a sacrifice to the altar.

 

_Hush little baby, don’t make a sound… Father lays in defeat so profound_

 

She continued to sing, even as she was joined on the bed by another woman, this one fair-haired but just as lovely as the first. Narcissa sat quietly on the edge of her sister's bed.

“Look, Cissy,” Bellatrix whispered as she slowly submerged the crying baby into the water. There was a manic glint in her eye that chilled Narcissa’s blood. “Isn’t she the perfect gift for _Him_?”

The baby's cry intensified and became watery gurgles as the bloody water began to creep over its nose and mouth, and Narcissa's hand shot out to stop her sister.

"Bella, don't --"

Still, Bellatrix continued to sing.

 

_Hush little baby, feel no pain… Someday soon, he will rise again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be made illegal for me to rhyme, as the end result is appalling. Next time I try to, just stop me with a "silencio"
> 
> Please tell me what you think! I'd love some feedback on this, 'cause I am still not sure I should be writing this mess. Thank you! And don't worry, there will be Adlock <3


	2. King's Cross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleven years after that fateful night, standing in the middle of King's Cross station on September 1st, unnoticed by the faceless mass, is a young girl named Irene Adler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is not so much a re-telling of HP, but a re-tooling, with Adlock and BBC Sherlock chiseled in. It's mostly Irene-centric, but Sherlock is, of course, a key player, and the prevailing pairing will be Adlock. I'll be focusing a lot on Irene's development through the story, and while there will be light moments, it might get pretty dark later on.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters. Don't you think I would if I could?

_Eleven years later..._

* * *

 

King's Cross was as busy as it could get on a Monday, with people bustling to and fro, trying to get from one platform to the next, each with their own destination in mind. The station was filled with the noises of every day life.

Standing in the middle of the crowd, unnoticed by the faceless mass, was a young girl.

At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about this girl. She was lovely to look at, yes, with thick, shining dark hair, which contrasted sharply with her pale, almost translucent skin. Her bright blue eyes were heavy-lidded with long eyelashes, and her thin lips were pursed in anticipation. But other than her striking appearance, there was nothing to indicate that this girl was anything out of the ordinary.

She was standing with her parents in the area between platforms nine and ten, surrounded by trunks. To any casual observer, it would seem that this little family was going on a trip, not unlike the other families that were milling around the station. Nothing out of the ordinary.

The girl was unusually quiet and composed for a child her age, but there was something about her countenance that drew the eye -- perhaps it was the way she impatiently shifted her weight from one foot to another that spoke of nervous energy. Or perhaps it was the way her grey-blue eyes shone with contained excitement as she watched her father eye the area between platforms with apparent perplexity.

The father twisted around, still looking confused, pacing between platforms nine and ten. "It says Platform 9 3/4... Here's nine, and there's ten. I'm not sure where --"

The young girl abandoned her post behind one of the trolleys and stood next to her father. Without saying anything, she reached out and placed a palm on the wall between platforms nine and ten.

Anyone watching would have been astonished to see the small palm sink into the wall and disappear, so that the young girl's arm seemed to terminate at the wrist. And indeed, her parents' reaction was one of shock and disbelief. The father gasped and made to reach for the girl's hand, and her mother uttered a small cry of surprise, hands flying to her mouth.

But the young girl only reacted with mild surprise and withdrew her hand, which appeared whole and unharmed. She flexed her fingers experimentally, examining them with light curiosity, but they appeared fine.

Then, eyes shining with excitement, the young girl plunged her entire arm into the perplexing wall and let the rest of her body follow.

Her mother gave a small whimper of protest that cut off abruptly as the girl disappeared completely. Both parents exchanged looks, and an unusual expression crossed both their faces -- one of shock, tempered by apprehension and something akin to resignation, it was an expression that had made its home there since the first day their six year old daughter had made the whole house shake when they refused to let her stay up past her bedtime. The cracks on the walls were still there five years later, hidden by plaster but not forgotten by either parent.

The mother moved forward first, propelled by concern, and nervously touched the wall. She cried out in surprise as her hand disappeared and withdrew it immediately. She breathed hard as she examined her uninjured hand and looked up at her husband with apprehension.

Underneath his obvious shock, the man seemed to steel himself and took the woman's hand in his, clutching it tightly. They exchanged another look, this time one of determination and with a deep breath, both parents followed their daughter into the wall.

* * *

Irene waited patiently as her father loaded her trunk onto the train and stood dutifully beside her mother, who was fussing over her hair ribbon. Her mother was mumbling under her breath as she fidgeted with the red ribbon keeping Irene's raven hair away from her face, untying and re-tying it when there was nothing wrong with it in the first place.

Irene had learned to recognize these symptoms years ago. Her mother always fidgeted when she was nervous or uncomfortable. And more often than not, she was nervous and uncomfortable in Irene's presence nowadays.

It was for the best that Irene was leaving for boarding school. Her mother was always ill-at-ease around her, as if waiting for another strange occurrence to happen or for Irene to do something out of the ordinary again, like make her dolls dance or make the roses from the rose bush levitate into a bouquet for Mother's Day. Her mother had accepted the thorny circlet with more apprehension than pleasure, and since then Irene had refrained from making such gestures.

For an eleven year old child, Irene had an unusually developed talent for feeling out the undercurrents of emotion in people, and living with a person who was, deep down, terrified of you was taxing on a young girl.

She also knew the strain it put on her parents to care for this unusual creature they did not understand. After all, when they had taken their year-old baby home from the orphanage, Jerome and Henrietta Adler could not have expected her to grow up with the ability to make the teapot levitate and pour her a cup of tea, or on one occasion, though her parents had never confirmed it was her, lock the bathroom door and windows on her older cousin from three houses away.

Her father could never prove that it was Irene who had done it, but the boy _had_ been bullying one of Irene's friends only days before.

All in all, despite her parent's apprehension and slight nervousness on Irene's part, the visit from the strange man who called himself Professor Dumbledore and the accompanying invitation to leave for a school that would somehow teach her how to control these unusual gifts was welcome to the clueless parents and the curious child.

They did not need a letter from this Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (wasn't that just the most preposterous thing you ever heard? And yet it explained everything) to tell them that their daughter was different. And though they loved Irene dearly, this removed a large portion of the burden off her parents' shoulders, and provided Irene with the opportunity to explore her talents.

And so, Irene, knowing that she would soon be rid of the ever-present tension that existed between her and her mother, submitted to her fidgety ministrations without protest. She let her mother tie her hair one last time before turning to her with an expectant expression.

Her father having loaded her belongings onto the train and her mother having exhausted the task of straightening Irene's immaculate appearance, her parents now stood awkwardly before her. Irene's thin lips stretched into a tight smile, and her mother reached out to give her a hug, but changed her mind at the last second and instead, tucked an imaginary stray hair away from Irene's face.

"Be good," her mother preached, an automatic admonition, though Irene had never actually been caught doing anything 'not good'. "And write to us."

Irene sighed and nodded silently. The final call for boarding resounded through the noisy station, and students began to pile into the train lugging assorted trunks, books and pets in cages. 

Her father, clearing his throat awkwardly, helped her climb onto the train, then stood beside her mother while Irene slipped into an empty compartment. She pressed her hand against the window and waved dutifully goodbye to her parent's figures, made nearly invisible by the smoke, as the train began to pull out of the station.

She waved until they were out of sight, then she settled on her seat and didn't look back.

"Excuse me."

Irene looked away from the window and turned toward the new voice. Another girl was standing at the doorway. She had bushy brown hair and brown eyes, and she was holding a book bag. She gestured toward the empty seat across Irene. "May I?"

Irene looked at her closely. The way she held the book bag, almost defensively, to her chest, and the bitten-down cuticles of her nails spoke of her nervousness, but the amplification of her voice and way she held her chin up showed a confidence that was an overcompensation to hide her anxiety. 

"Of course."

The other girl gave her a broad smile that showed off her prominent front teeth, but was pleasant nonetheless. She settled her book bag beside her neatly and held out her hand to Irene. "I'm Hermione Granger."

Irene shook her hand. "Irene Adler."

"It's my first time to Hogwarts. Neither of my parents are magic, so I didn't know about it until I got my letter. I was ever so surprised, but I was pleased all the same. My Mum and Dad were so proud when they heard. I've been reading all about it, and it seems like the best magic school there is. Are you a first year as well?"

The girl's steady stream of chatter surprised Irene, but it didn't annoy her. She recognized it as merely an extension of the overcompensation she had glimpsed earlier.

"Yes, I am."

"Oh, wonderful. It's exciting isn't it? Do you know which House you'll be in? I know we don't really find out until the Sorting, but I heard that some people are sorted based on their families. I've heard some families have been sorted in the same House for generations. I suppose I'll just have to see where I'm sorted. How about your family?"

Irene shook her head. "My parents are non-magic too."

Hermione's eyes lit up. "So we're both Muggle-borns! How about that?"

Both girls shared a smile, but Hermione's dimmed a bit. "Do you think it will make a difference? If we're Muggle-born, I mean."

Irene looked thoughtfully out the window, a tiny bit of nervousness growing in the pit of her stomach. "I don't know. I hope not..."

Luckily, at this point, they were distracted by a knock on the compartment door and the sudden appearance of a round-faced boy who called himself Neville Longbottom, who had lost his toad Trevor. Both girls rose from their seats to help him find it, and found themselves knocking on another compartment door behind which were two boys named Ron Weasley and Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline on this might be a little skewed: I might have flashbacks or flash forwards or stuff like that. I can't rewrite the whole HP story, but I will be squeezing Irene in on some important moments. It will also follow both/either HP book and HP movie. It can go either way. As much as possible, I will try to write my own re-imagining of it, but there's only so much one can do when one's AU is so heavily reliant on canon HP.
> 
> Please tell me your thoughts, I'd like to know how everyone thinks it's going so far. Thank you! <3


	3. Wizard's Chess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you remember the first time we met?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the lovely equusgirl of tumblr (http://equusgirl.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing this for me. English is my 2nd language, and I sometimes overlook some stuff.
> 
> As I mentioned before, this little fic may have some flashbacks/forwards, so it'll be a little fragmented. It'll make sense later on, so please bear with me on this... and enjoy!

_She leaned over him, pupils dilated to the point of obscuring her liquid irises. He could feel her warm breath on the outer shell of his ear. Her breathing was more shallow now than when she had started and her respiration had increased by two cycles per minute. She paused for the barest heartbeat, considering him._

_“Do you remember the first time we met?”_

_He chuckled softly at the memory, fingertips grazing the inside of her wrist, finding the soft, sensitive skin there. Pulse elevated. “Of course.”_

_“Do you remember what I told you?”_

_The smile on his face grew to match the wicked one on hers. “Yes.”_

...

...

...

 

“Sherlock, it’s your move.” 

John Watson prodded his friend, who was too busy reading the thick book on the table beside him to pay attention to their game. His friend ignored him and focused on copying a few passages from the book onto a piece of parchment. John whacked him over the head with his copy of  _Advanced Potion Making_.

Sherlock Holmes looked up, eyes unfocused. He looked around as if surprised to see himself in the Great Hall… Typical. “What?”

John rolled his eyes and gesticulated toward the chessboard. “It’s your move, mate!”

“What?" Sherlock blinked a couple of times, glanced offhandedly at the chessboard and waved distractedly at his pieces. “Oh yes. Knight to E5.”

The chess piece moved itself a few squares and Sherlock returned to his book. John rolled his eyes again and hit the clock. The Great Hall was almost empty, the students having gone their separate ways after dinner. Sherlock always preferred the Great Hall to the common room at this time of night. Less distraction, the man said. Only John was allowed because he provided excellent background noise.

John, as usual, tolerated his friend’s eccentricities with good-natured resignation. Though at unheard-of times like this, when John was about to trounce him at wizard’s chess, Sherlock’s distraction worked to his advantage and he couldn’t help but be smug. “I swear mate, if you keep carrying on like this, I might actually beat you this time.”

“No, you won’t.”

A voice piped up beside John, and he turned in surprise to see a young girl standing beside the bench he was sitting on. Where had she come from?

John stared at the girl. “Excuse me?”

“You won’t beat him.” The girl spared John a small, dismissive glance before leaning in close to examine the board, her bright eyes flicking rapidly between chess pieces. John was too surprised by the girl’s sudden appearance and by how forward she was to reply. After a few seconds of examination, the girl remarked in an off-hand voice “He’ll beat you in five moves.”

John looked back down at the chessboard and followed her gaze, trying to figure out what the girl had seen. “Don’t be ridiculous –-”

The girl looked up at him, and this time so did Sherlock. John shifted uncomfortably as two sets of piercing blue eyes looked up at him as if he were a five-year-old. He cleared his throat. It was rather disconcerting.

Sherlock huffed a short, derisive laugh before returning to his book. “She’s right.”

“Wha-– No, she’s not!” John gave his best friend a dirty look and frowned at the girl, who had resumed her examination of the chessboard. He pointedly ignored her and glared resolutely at his chess pieces, trying to shake off the disconcerting feeling. “Bishop to D4.”

His bishop moved obligingly into position. He was just about to hit the clock for Sherlock’s turn when the girl turned and gave him a scathing look. “You’re doing it wrong.”

Now it was John’s turn to glare at her. “What?”

The girl rolled her eyes and gave him another piercing look, hands on her hips, managing to look kinda cute and supremely annoying at the same time. She repeated herself “You’re doing it  _wrong_.”

Supremely annoying, definitely. John looked to Sherlock for support, but his friend was still busy with his book. John turned back to the girl. “Do you mind? We’re playing here.”

The girl laughed. Actually laughed, in John’s face. Sherlock looked up from his book. The girl spoke as if John were the first year and she was the seventh.

“No,  _he’s_  playing,” she gestured at Sherlock, who put down his quill and watched John and the girl with interest. The kid turned back to John. “You’re losing.”

John’s jaw dropped in surprise and indignation, but before he could say anything, the girl sat down on the bench and pushed him. “Move.”

Was she kidding...? Jesus, who was this kid? “What–? No!”

The girl turned toward him. As she did, something in her eyes flashed and her voice took on a hard, imperious tone. “I said,  _move_.”

John shifted uncomfortably under her icy stare and cleared his throat, about to protest, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock close his book and stare at the girl.

There was a familiar glint in his eye that John recognized – the kind that took over his friend when he encountered a particularly difficult problem. Which had become rare nowadays, since he claimed that the curriculum offered as much challenge as peeling an orange. With Sherlock complaining of how bored he was more frequently, John hadn’t seen that particular glint in his eye in a while.

Sherlock shoved his book away, still staring at the kid.

Then, without so much as a word to John, he pushed the chessboard so that it was right in front of the girl. He hit the clock and slid over so that he was directly opposite her. The girl’s chin lifted and she grinned smugly.

That familiar condescending smile began to grow on Sherlock’s face. “What makes you think you can win when he was about to lose? Knight to G4.”

Sherlock’s knight moved several spaces and the girl settled in her seat on the bench. She didn’t even look down at the chessboard. Instead, she returned Sherlock’s smile with a serene, self-satisfied smile of her own.

“I always win.”

As she commanded her bishop to move, John’s gaze flicked from one to the other. He had been completely forgotten. Well, hell, how had  _that_  happened?

For once, Sherlock wasn’t in some distracted trance or wandering around in his “mind palace” (which was thankfully not an actual palace his friend was constructing -- though Sherlock had been known to attempt stranger things -- but a new memory technique his friend had learned about and was currently exploring).

This time, the girl and the game had his complete attention, which John, in all the times he had played Sherlock, had never managed to acquire. Neither of them paid him any attention. Gazes locked, both were now too involved in the game to even notice he was there.

It took more than five moves. In fact, John had lost count of how many moves it took. The kid was good, John would give her that. Very good.

She made several moves that made no sense to John, like sacrificing her bishop and castle in two moves only to gain one pawn. But she managed to anticipate some of Sherlock’s moves in time to protect her other pieces. Twenty minutes later, Sherlock had yet to decimate her. 

Not bad for an eleven-year-old girl.

But John had played Sherlock enough times to know how masterful a player his friend was. The smug, condescending smile on his friend’s face grew as the girl began to lose more and more of her pieces. John watched the girl bite her lip nervously and examine the chessboard again.

Sherlock still had half his pieces, but the girl had lost both her castles, a knight and a bishop, not including the pawns and the knight John himself had lost at the beginning of the game.

John was just about to comment on this when Mary appeared at his elbow. She greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. “Hello, boys. Still playing? Bit late, isn’t it?”

“Ah, no…” John wrapped an arm around her waist. and gestured toward his friend and the young girl absorbed in their game. “Apparently, I was doing it wrong, and now  _they’re_  playing.”

Mary turned in the direction of the table and spotted the girl. Her gaze flitted between the two. “Who’s the kid?”

John shrugged. “No idea."

It was at this point that Sherlock moved one of his pieces and in typical Sherlock fashion, began to tear apart the girl with his caustic words. He sneered as he hit the clock. “Wrong move... And here, I thought you were moderately clever. Perhaps it would be better if you were to stop boring me, and  _think_.”

John and Mary watched as tears began to fill the young girl’s blue eyes and her bottom lip began to tremble.

“Jesus, Sherlock…!” John hissed, rounding on his friend. As supremely annoying as the girl was, she was still only a kid. Sherlock could be a dick sometimes, and though John understood that Sherlock didn’t have a filter to control his sarcasm or his behavior, there were limits, and making a first-year cry and demolishing her at chess was definitely one of them.

“Sherlock!” Mary chided, swatting him on the shoulder. “Don’t say that!”

“Oh, it’s quite alright.”

All three seventh years turned to the girl sitting opposite Sherlock. To John’s surprise, her eyes were completely dry and her lower lip had stopped trembling. As they watched, a feral smile began to grow on her lovely little face and she looked Sherlock right in the eye.

“I was just about to say the same to him. Queen to A6.”

To John and Mary’s shock and Sherlock’s horror, the girl’s miniature queen moved forward on the chessboard, unsheathed its blade and ran it straight through the king’s heart.

There was a long moment of silence, then the girl smiled sweetly at Sherlock. “I told you.”

John and Mary gaped at the girl, who stood up from the bench as casually as if she had just finished dinner. Sherlock didn’t turn to look at her, instead, he stared at the remnants of his broken king, brow furrowed and jaw clenched.

John had never seen a look like that on his friend’s face. But then again, he had never seen the unbeatable Sherlock Holmes so utterly demolished at wizard’s chess before.

“Well!” The girl turned to John and Mary with a bright smile, her eyes twinkling mischievously as she addressed them both with a polite nod. “It’s been a pleasure. Mr. Watson, Miss Morstan.”

She drew her robes around her in a graceful sweep, but just before she left, she turned to Sherlock one last time. “And good night, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

...

...

...

_“I told you.” She smiled as she pressed a kiss against the corner of his mouth, pleased at the red mark she had left there. “I always win.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this AU, both John and Sherlock are seventh year Gryffindors during Irene's first year. I know it's unusual, but there is a reason for this. Little tidbit: The Sorting Hat took twenty minutes to decide between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor for Sherlock. He ended up in Gryffindor.
> 
> As always, I welcome all thoughts, opinions and constructive criticism. Except haters. No room for that here. Much love <3


End file.
